Writings of a storm cold
Writings of a storm cold
The house gently
Creaks
From icy winds pressing against
Exteriors whilst slipping
Through
Small inconsistencies.
Sleet dances against window panes.
Piling glass against glass,
Particulates of infinite possibilities.
Fractals dancing down,
Tap dancing on rooftops.
I sit at kitchen table,
Bundled from the cold.
My only friend and partner, a
Dancing flame from candle
Casting shadows upon the walls.
Words scratching valleys and
Mountains across vast white expanse.
Scratching eloquence..
Moving still.
Plumes of billowy
exhale
surround my head
Like a haloed angel.
Tonalities of gray, from white to
A Dark and shadowy blackness.
Reaching out,
Ever growing,
Like the reach of sea creatures lost beneath vast depths.
Here I sit,
Staged against the cold.
A storm of ice,
From liquids fallen from skies with stories
Told.
I am their conductor.
Dance for me of wind,
Whisper in mine ear.
Settle still o house of moaning temperance
Against a northernly wind.
All the while my quill to
Parchment
Sliding out visions painted by verbiage.
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